


Two and a cat

by Omi_Lightbearer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cats, Fix-It, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Masturbation, Pets, Pining Sherlock, Post-His Last Vow, Requited Love, actually it's more of an excuse, anti-Mary, case not really important, for cat-lovers only, post-HLV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 18:42:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1754389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omi_Lightbearer/pseuds/Omi_Lightbearer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set three months after the birth of the baby, the discovery of Mary's infidelity and her departure. Sherlock doesn't know how to put John together, and he solves a pet-kidnapping case which brings Hamlet into his hands. As he and John adjust to the new furry flatmate, their feelings for each other come to the fore.<br/>I suppose this fic won't make sense if you aren't a cat lover like me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two and a cat

It had been three months since the whole truth came out and Mary left with the baby, and the shadow that had seemingly fallen over his best friend, wrapping around him like a cloak, had not lifted. John had lost his appetite and was considerably thinner, even though Sherlock had really tried to make him interested in food —it was ironic, how their roles had been reversed. He would sit on his chair with a vacant expression on his face; Sherlock was not sure whether he kept pondering everything that had happened or he just detached himself from reality altogether. Sometimes, however, his eyes would flicker in Sherlock’s direction, acknowledging him for an instant, as if he were trying to reassure himself that Sherlock was still around.

Sherlock had become better at understanding people’s emotions to the point that he knew how Mary’s betrayal must have hurt John. John, who had struggled to forgive her even after she shot Sherlock, even after he got a glimpse of who she was. He’d focused on the baby, on the joy she would bring to their lives, on the possibility of real, heartfelt reconciliation. It had all been to no avail. As her due date approached, Mary had become restless; she still kept up her façade but one day Mycroft brought Sherlock a piece of information that was a complete game-changer. He had been doing some digging into Mary’s past since Christmas, though not per Sherlock’s request, and had found out that she had cheated on John once. Only once, but the dates matched. She had been about to get married when she did.

Breaking the news to John was the tricky part, and it was Mycroft who hinted at the need for a paternity test. At first John fumed and cursed and would hear none of it. The baby was born and he stood right beside his wife. He wanted to believe that the girl was his daughter, but the doubt was there, written all over his face, even as he looked at her. He had never trusted his wife again, not after their strained reconciliation on Christmas Day. John finally gave up and had the test taken. The results came and he wasn’t even surprised. He had tried so very hard to love that woman in spite of what she’d done. His heart simply broke.

John had lost one person after another, Sherlock mused sadly. Everyone who mattered had lied to him, abandoned him and taken away a chunk of his heart —including Sherlock himself. At one point all the pieces had been tacked together and John seemed to have a shot at a happy normal life, but the illusion had faded and reality had beaten him numb.  

John still helped with cases. He wasn’t overly excited about them lately, though, not anymore. Sherlock hoped that he would go back to his former self in time, and he kept talking to John, telling him about developments concerning Moriarty —who had not communicated with them after the video feeds, although he probably would. He would even drag John along to crime scenes and the man would still look at corpses and evidence and voice his opinion, acting as his conductor of light like in the old times. Yet something was missing.

Sherlock did not know what else he could do for John. Maybe there was nothing he was supposed to do. Sherlock had been pining for his friend for such a long time that his heart had filled with silent despair. Whatever little hope he’d let himself harbour in view of Mary’s departure and John’s return to Baker St had faded as he realized that his friend had entrenched himself behind a wall and was not willing to let anyone into his heart again.

On May 7th, spring put an unexpected gift into Sherlock’s hands, which in turn he deposited on John’s chair right before he arrived home.

‘What is this?’ John asked, dropping his jacket on the table. He crouched down next to the chair and touched the little ball of white and black fur that was looking at him with big blue eyes.

‘It’s a kitten,’ Sherlock answered, very serious.

‘I can see it’s a kitten. What is it doing here?’ John ran a finger over its fur and the kitten sniffed at it curiously, then decided to bite the tip. ‘Ouch.’

‘I can tell you how it came to be here,’ Sherlock said matter-of-factly as he dropped into his own chair, steepling his fingers before his face. ‘An old acquaintance of mine, a former client, asked me to track down her stolen cat. Apparently it had been kidnapped and she had received a mysterious note demanding a ransom —I should tell you that the lady is quite rich. She paid the ransom but the cat never appeared and she never heard from the kidnapper again. Several months passed; I made some inquiries and it turned out that Linda —the cat— had been smart enough to escape the house of her kidnapper. She was too far to find the way back home, however, and she took to hanging out with an indefinite number of stray cats. By the time I found her, she had three kittens by her side. Meet Hamlet.’ Sherlock pointed at the kitten with a dramatic gesture and awaited John’s reaction.

‘You worked a pet kidnapping case?’

‘As I said, she was an acquaintance and she seemed deeply distressed at the loss of her cat. She is very happy now.’

‘Where are the other two kittens?’ John frowned. Sherlock stared at him, mildly amused at his concern.

‘Well, I couldn’t bring them all here. Mrs Gadel —that is the old lady’s name— kept the female and Molly has the other male. She said she’d wanted a cat for a while.’

John lifted the kitten from the chair, sat down and put it gently on his lap. ‘Are we keeping him?’

Sherlock opened his eyes wide. John was definitely sporting a half-smile. Molly had said this could work nicely and Sherlock hadn’t believed her, but he realized this _might_ just be what John needed.

‘That was the idea. If you want, of course. Mrs Hudson said she doesn’t mind our keeping a pet. It can’t be worse than me shooting at walls, she added.’ Sherlock had prepared a very long list of arguments why they should keep the kitten, but he realized he wouldn’t have to use it. ‘He’s two months old now.’

‘Have you really named him Hamlet?’ John lifted him up in order to have a better look at him. The kitten mewled and tried to bite his thumb again. ‘He looks a bit like you.’

Sherlock blinked several times. John was actually looking at him. _Looking_ , not just making sure that he hadn’t left or nodding lightly in his direction while Sherlock talked at him.

‘How so?’

‘The combination of dark, white and blue. He has a bit of an attitude, too.’ The kitten touched John’s face with its paws playfully.

‘He’s still a boy-cat,’ Sherlock rolled his eyes a little. He was delighted deep down but thought it best not show it. ‘Maybe he grows into a calm and polite adult cat that is no trouble at all.’

‘Have you fed him? Have we got cat litter and all that? My grandma used to have cats when I was a kid. They don’t need much, but there are some basic things.’

‘He ate several hours ago but, as a matter of fact, I was waiting for you. I thought you’d know what to buy.’ Of course he could have bought everything easily, but it seemed better to get John to do the shopping. That would make him go out on his own for once.

‘I should do that before the shops close,’ John said, getting on his feet. ‘Keep an eye on him?’

Sherlock nodded and watched John put Hamlet on the floor, grab his jacket and leave.

‘Do you think we can fix him, you and I?’ he muttered, more to himself than to the cat, as he looked wistfully at the door.

That evening they tried to make the flat suitably kitten-friendly. Sherlock made a point of storing away all dangerous chemicals that a curious cat might be tempted to sniff without John having to ask him. John set up the litter box, food bowls and over-the-top fluffy pet bed. The doctor also tried to get Hamlet interested in a jingly rope and feather mouse, but the kitten focused on eating for the time being. Would he easily adapt to domestic comforts after lacking a proper home? Sherlock wondered. His eyes shifted to John and he asked himself the same question.

‘He is clever,’ John said, as he observed Hamlet going to the kitchen corner in order to use the litterbox. ‘Is there any food? People food. I totally forgot to bring some.’

‘That cat food smells delicious though,’ Sherlock replied nonchalantly, and that made John smile a bit. ‘Don’t worry, we can order in.’ Sherlock got hold of his phone, obliging.

They had Thai food watching crap telly; Sherlock pretended to look at the screen when in fact he kept watching John out of the corner of his eye. Hamlet had decided to take a nap on John’s lap; he was keen on the soft flannel of his pyjamas, apparently, and he had pawed at the fabric a bit before deciding on a good spot. They had taken to each other straight away. _Just like we did_ , Sherlock mused. _Hitting it on immediately._ He often failed at deciphering John’s expression these days; it was almost neutral most of the time, as if he really didn’t care about any of it. Life, work, food. The spark only returned when they got a case and some action. That evening he looked more relaxed as he let his hand rest on the kitten’s back. Sherlock had read an article about cats’ healing properties but had thought it was all bullshit written by humans who were overly fond of their pets. He was going to test it out, take note of every small change in John’s face, mood or body language.

For a very long time, Sherlock had focused on keeping John safe. John’s life had been threatened too often, and it had indirectly been Sherlock’s fault. He wanted to make John happy now, and he knew that it would prove much trickier, but he owed John that much.

‘I didn’t know you liked pets,’ John said just as Sherlock’s eyes were starting to close, head propped against a cushion.

‘They are not as annoying as people,’ Sherlock mumbled.

John was looking at him. Staring, in fact. Sherlock wished he could be more alert but he’d had an exhausting day and had actually eaten dinner, and as a consequence he was dozing off. He managed to lift one eyelid in time to see what could very well be a fond smile on John’s face. He later told himself he’d dreamed it.

The following day Sherlock poked around on his computer all morning, checking e-mails and growing increasingly frustrated because apparently everything was quiet and peaceful in London; there were no crimes or major thefts to crack. Granted, he had just solved a case the day before, but he grew restless easily. He was almost relieved when John informed him that they had somewhere to go.

‘We have an appointment at the vet’s.’

‘Do we?’ Sherlock raised an eyebrow and automatically searched for Hamlet, who had perched on top of the sofa. ‘What for? He seems okay.’

‘He is, I think, but kittens need their vaccines. I’ve just asked Molly where she’s taken hers and she’s given me the name and telephone. It’s not far. We can carry him in that.’ John pointed at a brand new blue and white cat carrier.

‘You’ve really equipped yourself,’ Sherlock said, amused. He thought it best not to complain. Mundane as though taking a pet to the veterinarian may be, he got to spend time with John. The very fact that John wanted him to come along was important, he told himself. ‘At what time is the appointment?’

‘Two o’clock. Do you want to grab something to eat before that?’

‘If you like.’ He wasn’t hungry; he’d eaten enough for three days the previous evening, he estimated. ‘Has he slept in the basket you got him?’ he added as an afterthought.

‘No, he came to bed with me,’ John shrugged. ‘I tried to explain he should use the fluffy pet thing but I don’t think he gets it.’

‘He probably understands but merely ignores you so that he can sleep on the bed,’ Sherlock’s lips curved into a small smile. That was one clever cat. He almost wished he could turn into a cat at night, too.

Although Sherlock would have liked to have more time to make deductions about the pet owners sitting in the waiting room, they were summoned pretty soon. The veterinarian was a young woman, not over 35, and very much John’s type with her medium-length blond hair and intelligent eyes, Sherlock realized, automatically uneasy. John didn’t seem kinder than usual as he opened the carrier and she got hold of Hamlet and said something about he being a very cute kitten. Sherlock analyzed her, trying to infer if she posed a threat or not. She was divorced but seeing someone, he thought, his eyes darting from her ring finger to her rather fancy earrings and taking in every detail on the way. She wasn’t into that someone all that much, he could tell from the way she had started flirting at John. Sherlock stood there, shooting daggers at her, and it took him a second to realize that the woman had just asked him a question. John was good enough to repeat it.

‘Sherlock. She’s asked if you’ve had a cat before.’

‘No, I haven’t. But it can’t be rocket science,’ he said, staring at the vet. ‘We’ll do _fine_.’  

‘I’m sure you will,’ she smiled. ‘Cats are not hard to keep if you understand them a little. They are independent creatures, which doesn’t mean they aren’t affectionate ─they can be very much so─ but they won’t always do your bidding and they usually have their own agenda concerning where and when to sleep and what to eat.’

‘Sounds like you,’ John grinned at Sherlock. Grinned. This was a good change, Sherlock thought. He hadn’t seen that genuinely amused, somewhat teasing, smile in a while.

‘Am I cat now?’ he stated rather than asked, folding his arms.

‘No need to explain much more about their personality, then,’ the vet said, smiling a bit. ‘I’m going to take a look at his ears, check his temperature and heart rate.’

Hamlet didn’t enjoy being on the cold metallic table very much, but he bore it with dignified unfriendliness towards the woman, not trying to scratch her or anything but hissing a bit when she touched him too much, as if drawing a line that shouldn’t be crossed. The kitten’s head was too big compared to the rest of his body, Sherlock observed, and then reprimanded himself for not focusing on the important thing there. Truth was, John didn’t seem very interested in the woman. He didn’t flirt back, although he was polite and paid attention to everything she said concerning vaccinations, potential diseases kittens could suffer and whatnot. Sherlock didn’t really listen.

‘Give him this pill with some food tonight. It’s anti-parasitic medication; four times a years should be enough for a cat living in a flat,’ she said, handing a small plastic square containing a blue tablet to John.

‘How do you give a cat a pill?’ Sherlock asked, suddenly joining the conversation.

‘You can hide it into a cat treat.’ She reached for a small bag of cat food on one of the counters. ‘He should like this one, it’s top-of-the-range.’

‘Is there anything else we should know?’

‘Nothing you won’t find out for yourselves. He’s a healthy boy and he’ll be no trouble. Just remember that you are not exactly his owners; more like his _humans_ , in any case.’

Sherlock decided he liked cats after all. They made it out of the clinic without John even giving the vet his number and Sherlock came to the conclusion that he wasn’t interested in dating, but he raised the topic anyway.  

‘Smart young woman,’ he said as he offered to get hold of the cat carrier, since John had done it on the way there.

‘Very professional, and she really likes her job,’ John replied. They stopped at a zebra crossing, waiting for the light to go green.

‘She liked you,’ Sherlock said quietly, after weighing the pros and cons of telling him.

‘Did she? I didn’t notice.’ John dismissed the idea right away, and Sherlock sensed that he was not only uninterested. He was wary of it. Which meant that it was too soon after Mary and John was in no hurry to find someone new to take her place.  

They spent the afternoon in their sitting-room, John typing the details of one of their last cases into his laptop ─something he hadn’t stopped doing, and which apparently helped somewhat─ while Sherlock examined different fabrics into his microscope. He was distracted by a soft mewl and the sound of John’s footsteps as he went to check what was wrong. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder and saw the kitten sitting next to the litterbox.

‘I don’t understand,’ John said, squatting before him. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went to have a look.

‘He’s trying to tell you that there is poo on the litter, which he finds unacceptable. He wants you to clean it before he uses the toilet again.’

John blinked several times and frowned. ‘Seriously?’

‘Do it and we’ll see what happens.’

John put on a disposable plastic glove, scooped up the tiny excrements and disposed of them in the toilet. He’d turned around to face Hamlet when he saw the kitten scratching at the litter on the surface.

‘Let’s give him some privacy,’ Sherlock chuckled. So he was good at deducing cats too.

A couple of hours later Sherlock started to feel bored. He’d lost interest in his experiment and decided to sit on the couch with a piece of string in his hand and amuse himself by having Hamlet chase it. The kitten was indefatigable; he ran around, jumped way higher than he should considering his size, and from time to time managed to catch one end of the string and pull. The detective was so absorbed in their game that he didn’t realize John had come to sit by his side and was looking at him intently. He averted his eyes as soon as Sherlock noticed his staring, and wiggled his fingers at Hamlet. Hamlet adored John, Sherlock realized as the kitten forgot all about the piece of string and set on chasing those strong, skilled fingers Sherlock liked so much. Sherlock curled up on the couch, head propped against a cushion, and watched them at play. The kitten climbed the leg of John’s trousers and purred a bit against his woollen jumper. It seemed that Sherlock had someone new to be jealous of, after all, he thought, smiling to himself.

There was something about the three of them sitting on that couch, doing nothing but hanging out, which was nice and warm and domestic in a comforting way. Sherlock felt better than he had in months, even if he was still painfully aware of his unrequited feelings. When John spoke, it came as a surprise.

‘You know, you would have been a good uncle,’ he said, wistfully.

Sherlock cringed at the first mention of the baby in months. John never raised the subject. He hadn’t really put his disappointment in words. Now Sherlock had to say something, and he was at a loss for words.

‘Really?’ It was all he could manage. His whole body had tensed up in an instant, waiting for the avalanche of sentiment that was sure to follow. John was petting Hamlet’s head, his fingers running over a peculiar patch of white hair amidst the black fur between the kitten’s ears.

‘I think so. A child would probably be fascinated by you, look up to you even. You would be different from the other grown-ups to him or her.’

‘You mean I’m not really a grown-up,’ Sherlock quipped, hoping to ease that tension.    

‘I wasn’t ready, Sherlock. I didn’t want to be a father.’ There it was, the dramatic turn of the conversation. Sherlock tried to show no emotions whatsoever. He’d suspected as much; he remembered John’s reaction when he’d told them the news on their wedding. Not delighted. Shocked, yes, and then Mary and he realized that they were expected to feel happy, maybe, play the part; and so they did.

‘John,’ he said, sitting up with his back straight, and felt like an idiot because he didn’t know how to continue.

‘When I learnt that she was a liar, I thought, how can this woman be a mother? She can’t be trusted. And I hated myself for it, because I really wanted to forgive her, but I kept thinking of the child. She knew I wouldn’t leave her.’ John went on and on, shaking his head slowly as he spoke. ‘Tell me I didn’t bring this on myself, Sherlock. I think I did. I should have left that moment that the truth was out. I thought it would be cowardly to abandon a woman who was carrying my child. It never occurred to me that she could have cheated, even if it was nearly impossible that the baby was mine. I was _so_ careful. We were.’ John’s voice quivered a bit. He looked at Sherlock, waiting for a reply.

‘She doesn’t deserve this, John,’ Sherlock said. ‘By this I mean, your thinking about her at all. I’ve never spoken against Mary as I always tried to think the best of her but, truth be told, she lost any rights to you the moment she was unfaithful. You were engaged and you were in love, so how could you have seen that?’

‘How could I have _not_ seen it?’ John replied, angrily. ‘And we went through with the wedding and then she shot you. Shot you, as if she didn’t know…’ He left the sentence unfinished, but his gaze was penetrating when Sherlock met it, and the detective understood his point. Mary had shot him, as if she didn’t know what his dying again ─for real this time─ would do to John. As if she hadn’t seen him grieve.

‘John, I’m sorry it didn’t work out the way you wanted,’ he said in a subdued voice, and wondered if it was a lie. Was he sorry? John was back in Baker Street.

‘You don’t understand. I didn’t want it. Any of it. I was bored out of my wits; I was trapped in that house. I kept thinking that having a child would ground me. I wouldn’t be able to run headfirst into danger with you. I fucking wished I had chosen _right_.’ John gestured for emphasis, and Hamlet pounced on his hand, nibbling at a finger again.

‘Be careful what you wish for,’ Sherlock whispered, more to himself than to John. He dared not feel too optimistic, but his heart was pounding in his chest and, unless he had really misunderstood that last part, John had just pointed at him as his other _option_. Which didn’t mean he stood a chance now, but it was something he could work with.

John’s eyes were on the kitten again, and he didn’t say anything. At that moment, Sherlock’s phone beeped and he checked it to find there was a text from Lestrade.

‘John, there is a body that apparently I ─we─ should go see. It may be connected to the double murder a week ago. It’s either a serial killer or a vendetta.’

‘Alright,’ John said, and for a moment Sherlock thought he’d stay right there, unwilling to come along this time. However, John got on his feet and dropped Hamlet gently on the couch.

Sherlock welcomed this sudden relief, the opportunity to end a conversation that might have gone wrong. He went into his bedroom for a moment, got changed and was ready to leave ten minutes later. As he stepped towards their main door, he saw John refilling Hamlet’s food bowl. He was such a caring man, Sherlock thought, and remembered the time, at the beginning of their acquaintance, when he hadn’t really understood this side of John. Caring was pointless, he’d thought. It had taken two years of separation and an ill-timed comeback that included finding John in the arms of another to persuade Sherlock that he might be more than a bit in love with his friend.

They spent most of the evening at the crime scenes and the morgue, examining the body and comparing their data to the descriptions of the other two bodies. Sherlock quickly came to the conclusion that all three victims had been murdered by the same person, someone who had killed them near a river or pond of some kind, judging by the quality of the mud in their fingernails.

‘The three of them are women,’ John said. ‘Do you see a pattern?’

‘It’s not their sex but their occupations that intrigue me,’ Sherlock replied as they made their way to what he thought could be the location where the victims were stabbed. It was almost 10 p.m. and the streets were full of party-goers and people out to enjoy the nice Friday evening. ‘A barrister, a prison officer and a doctor. I need to find the link; this is an act of revenge.’

‘Will there be a fourth?’

‘It depends. The killer had something against these three people; they may have contributed to his incarceration or another act of injustice that warrants retaliation in his mind. By following the same MO, instead of killing each victim at a more convenient location, he wants the police to think he is a serial killer who picks people at random. But that is hardly so. He’s going through all the hassle of abducting the victims and bringing them here.’

They were standing at a particularly forlorn-looking muddy area by the shore of the Thames. Sherlock was able to spot some tracks on the ground, made by the killer as he dragged the body. When he was satisfied with what he’d found, he turned around to leave the dreary place, but walked right into John, who was standing very still and could have dodged. Sherlock was about to step back and just circle around him but, for some reason, he didn’t. They were so close, their faces almost completely dark as the only solitary streetlight stood a few feet behind them, and Sherlock’s torch was pointed at the floor.

‘Sherlock, I appreciate it,’ John said, his voice hoarse, hands on the sleeves of Sherlock’s coat.

‘What?’ he breathed out as his mind lost its firm grasp on the case, the evidence, the logic of it all and focused on John only. He’d come to view this as a handicap that nevertheless paid off because it meant that John was still around.

‘I appreciate what you’ve done the last few months. And even before that. After you got shot and I didn’t know what to do with myself, you took me in. You’ve kept the door open for me.’ His grasp had become firmer. Standing this close, Sherlock could smell John’s bath soap, the coffee he’d had a couple of hours before, even the cat food he’d been handling in order to feed the kitten. John always smelled of domestic things.

‘I thought you might want to come home,’ he replied. Had he picked up this line from a cheesy film, he wondered. His heart rate had increased and he felt something akin to vertigo as they stood there, at their point of no return.

‘I’m not leaving again,’ John said, tilting his head up, practically breathing the words a mere few inches from Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s cramped shoulders relaxed, as if a weight had been lifted from them.

‘Good.’

‘We-we should probably continue this later,’ John said, coughing once and letting go of Sherlock’s arms. ‘Crime scene.’

‘Where else?’ Sherlock asked, smiling; he cupped John’s face with both hands and pulled him in for a kiss.

Sherlock had never truly wanted to kiss anyone. The need hadn’t been there. It almost surprised him, how good it was, how right it felt, especially when he realized that John was kissing back. It felt as if a pile of fireworks had gone off within Sherlock’s mind and body. None of them seemed confident enough to push the kiss to the next level so they just stood there with their lips locked, Sherlock’s hand on John’s nape and John’s back onto the detective’s coat. Sherlock didn’t know how long they’d been kissing when they parted. Now he had the taste and texture of John’s lips to add to his ever-increasing collection of John-related data.   

‘Better than Janine, I trust?’ John asked with an awkward laugh that Sherlock returned.

‘So you _were_ jealous. That meant nothing, John. It was a performance.’

Sherlock started walking towards the main road and John followed him in silence. He phoned Lestrade to inform him about the new developments regarding the case, and the man thanked him and asked him whether they were planning to work through the night.

‘Our kitten is home alone so we’ll go back to the morgue in the morning,’ he told Lestrade, glancing at John, who beamed at him.

Sherlock kept his hands and mouth to himself during the long cab ride and merely gazed at John, who was sitting closer than necessary, in silence.

‘We didn’t give him the pill,’ John said. ‘I wonder if he’ll resist.’

‘You should do it. He likes you.’

Hamlet was really happy to see them, and circled around John’s feet, mewing. Sherlock watched John open the small bag of cat food the vet had given him and tuck the pill into a morsel. Then Sherlock scooped up the kitten and handed him over to John. It took several attempts and John ended up with some cat food on his hands and face, but he eventually managed to make Hamlet swallow the medicine.

‘Trickier than you thought?’ Sherlock teased him as he left Hamlet on the floor again and wiped his face with a paper tissue.

‘Next one is all yours. I’m going to get changed; I think even my underwear’s got cat food on it.’  

Sherlock’s gaze followed John as he made his way upstairs. He decided to do the same and change into his pyjamas and dressing gown. Any other night he would have thought about the case some more before going to bed, or even stay away musing over the pieces of the puzzle. That night, however, he wanted nothing more than to be with John. He was afraid of pushing it, of demanding too much of the other man too soon, so he resolved not to do anything until John asked him to. He got hold of his violin and started playing a little song he’d been composing. He became absorbed in the music, letting his emotions take over, pouring them all into every note as he looked through the window at the clear night sky. When he turned around, John was sitting on the couch, wearing his flannel pyjama pants and a grey t-shirt. Hamlet had readily forgiven him even after their struggle about the pill, and was half-curled on top of the back of the sofa, blue eyes on Sherlock. He seemed to be listening too.

‘I have more of an audience now,’ Sherlock said when he finished, rather pleased.

‘We like that one.’ John gestured at the cat and himself.

‘It’s new. I’m still working on it.’

Sherlock put the violin back into its case as he tried to label the different emotions at war inside him: love, anticipation, dread, lust. It was difficult to even meet John’s eyes but he liked what he saw in them when he finally did.

‘Come here,’ John mouthed the words without making a noise, as if he feared that saying them aloud would raise the odds of Sherlock’s rejection. Sherlock crossed the sitting-room and sat right beside him.

‘John,’ he said. He wanted more of John’s lips, more reassurance that his feelings were somehow requited, but he didn’t know how to ask without making a fool of himself.

John turned sideways a bit and reached out to touch Sherlock’s cheek and neck with his free hand. Sherlock’s lips were half-parted as he tried to take regular deep breaths, willing his body to relax. He knew that relationships involved physical intimacy, and he’d even dreamed of this, of John’s hands laying a claim on him, but he’d never been touched this liberally before. After a few seconds he decided he liked it. He was about to wrap an arm around John’s waist and pull him closer when his best friend spoke.

‘Sherlock, you thought I needed something to love, didn’t you?’ John stared at one of the cushions for an instant before he brought himself to look right at Sherlock again; his jaw set the way it did when he wanted to say something important, and he even clenched his fingers a little. Even the pitch of his voice had fallen, and he spoke in a tense whisper. ‘And I’m glad Hamlet’s here. But I had… I did have something to love. Someone. There is someone who I thought wouldn’t want me after I settled for another person and broke his heart; someone whose love I probably don’t deserve. For the past weeks I’ve wondered if─if this person would have me now.’

Sherlock’s heart leapt for joy, a genuine smile forming on his lips.

‘If this person is a tall sociopath with a knack for getting into trouble and some crime-solving skills, then I believe he would.’

‘I don’t know how to make it up to you,’ John said, shaking his head in disbelief.

‘Considering you’ve been to hell and back a number of times, there is no need for that. Just stay home.’

It all happened in the blink of an eye. Sherlock found himself lying face-up on the couch, John straddling him and kissing him hungrily. John’s tongue licked at Sherlock’s lips and the latter understood and parted them to let it in; Sherlock felt a bit clumsy and self-aware, it being his first kiss of this sort, but he followed John’s cues and it turned out to be rather enjoyable. It was difficult to think when his mind was focused on doing that one thing ─savouring as much of John as possible─ but some of what John had said sank in all of a sudden. John had _realized_ Sherlock was in love with him. He knew he’d had a hard time. As they broke the kiss to breathe, he made himself ask.

‘When did you know?’

‘Mmmh?’ John was kissing his cheek, going as far as his earlobe; Sherlock had never thought this could be such a sensitive spot, and a shiver ran down his spine.

‘That I had feelings for you, John.’

‘On my wedding day.’ He stopped for a moment and brushed a few stray curls away from Sherlock’s forehead gently, his face suddenly very serious. ‘It took me too long. I was… well, blind. In many ways.’

‘I had no right to get in your way, to stop you from being happy with… a woman. Not after what I did by letting you believe I was dead.’ Sherlock’s arms wrapped around John’s back and he pulled him down so that their bodies were pressed together. John buried his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck and they lay like this for a while, just holding each other, overwhelmed by the emotion that things too long unsaid provoked. At some point they heard a noise of something tearing though fabric and John looked up.

‘He’s climbing the curtains. The cat.’

‘Is he now?’ Sherlock was too happy to care. His body was reacting to John’s closeness and he couldn’t pay attention to much else. He glanced sideways and saw Hamlet having fun as he used his claws to cling to the thin fabric.  

‘Mrs Hudson won’t like that,’ John said, and shifted as if he were going to sit up. Sherlock didn’t let him; he used his knees to hold him firmly in place.

‘I’ll buy her new curtains. Don’t move, John,’ he replied.

‘Am I turning you on?’ His crotch was now directly over Sherlock’s, and there was no mistaking the hard thing between his legs. Sherlock felt a jolt of pleasure as his own cock responded and stiffened, trapped under too many layers of clothing.

‘Yes. I think so. God, John, what is this?’ He wasn’t sure what to do. He’d never even contemplated doing this with anyone.

‘Relax. I’m going to touch you.’ John kissed the few inches of collarbone that  Sherlock’s t-shirt revealed. His fingers touched the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjama trousers and slid right under it, tugging his underwear down a little and running along the curve of his arse. Sherlock lifted his hips. It was getting unbearably hot in the room, he thought. He let out a gasp as John’s hand moved to the front and rested right on his cock for an instant.

‘John!’ he exclaimed, alarmed.

‘You’re rock-hard, Sherlock, do you want me to touch it?’ John’s voice was playful and sensual and had the goddamnest effect on Sherlock. He nodded and spread his legs as wide as he could, resolved to let John do whatever he wanted. ‘I’ll make this good for you,’ John added.

John’s fingers curled around Sherlock’s shaft, which was lying flat over his stomach by now, more erect than it had ever been. Sherlock felt it leak as John’s thumb ran over the head, circling around it. The pleasure was mind-numbing, and it did nothing but increase as John started pumping him slowly, eyes fixed on Sherlock’s heaving chest, on the way he bit his lower lip so as not to moan. Sherlock’s legs were quivering and he propped himself up on his elbows in time to see John stroking himself with his free hand. He had such warm, dexterous hands, Sherlock thought as he tilted his head back, letting go of his self-restraint, a stream of low groans escaping the back of his throat.

‘John, I can’t─!’ he cried out, and it all became too much to cope with, John’s firm hand working him faster and faster, the lust in his friend’s eyes and face, John’s own erection glistening with precome, and the happiness Sherlock felt at being touched, _wanted_ by John. His orgasm came crashing in, ripping his body apart, wave after wave after wave of pleasure that practically switched off his mind for minutes, as he was seized by pure physical bliss. He heard, more than saw, John’s own climax, and felt the warm fluids soaking into his pyjama t-shirt, mingling with his own.   

Sherlock lay back, spent and satisfied, looking up at John with watery eyes. John had sat up and was breathing deeply as he wiped his sticky hands on his own t-shirt.

‘How was that?’ John asked, leaning down again to kiss the corner of his lips.

‘Incredible.’

‘I’ve never been with a bloke before, but I’m starting to feel that I could get used to this. You are gorgeous and so responsive.’

‘I want you to do… these things to me. More. Everything,’ Sherlock said, a bit dazzled and not quite his regular self yet. ‘So do your research or whatever.’

‘I know we have an early start tomorrow, with the case and all, but we could sleep together. Just sleep.’

Sherlock sat up too, nodded and looked at Hamlet, who had tired of using the curtain as a swing and was now scratching at an empty cardboard box.

‘Do you think he ever needs rest?’ Sherlock asked, amused.

‘He’s like a child; he’ll exhaust himself and sleep through the night. Cats sleep more when they grow up.’

It was like having a little family of his own, Sherlock thought, and he found the idea strangely satisfying. He gave a contented sigh and stood up, then got hold of John’s hand, pulled him to his feet and led the way to his bedroom, which had the largest bed.

Sherlock nestled his head against John’s good shoulder and wrapped an arm over him, his best friend, his doctor, the love of his life. At some point in the early hours of the morning he woke up to find a breathing ball of soft fur right next to his nose; he shifted his position a little and let his eyes close again, more content than he had ever been.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A few days after I started writing this story, a member of my family came across an orphan kitten, a little thing with black and white fur -just like Hamlet. We set about finding a home for him (since we own three cats already) and he has one now, and he's growing happy and strong. A coincidence? The universe is rarely so lazy.  
> Comments are welcome, thanks for reading!


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